I had an epiphany this past year. I don’t know if it was just matter of age and maturity, or if it was a product of good old fashioned self-reflective work (I listened to mental health podcasts like it was my job during quarantine). Regardless of the impetus, I was finally able to do something that had alluded me for 47 years.

I stopped caring what other people think.

And sure, I’d reached that point in certain areas of my life a long time ago. It’s been at least a decade since I’ve been bothered by anyone’s negative opinions about how I parent, or my decision to homeschool. I’m confident in those decisions, and other people’s thoughts on the matter are not even a blip on the radar.

But.

That confidence sadly didn’t carry over to the rest of my life. Oh I could say I didn’t care with the best of them. But I cared. I cared a lot. I even see it in black and white in my past blog posts. People would say things and it would upset me to the point of triggering depression. Or anxiety. Or rage (which was always sent inward instead of outward because that’s the way I’m wired.) With all of my being, I cared. I cared when people disagreed, I cared when people made ignorant comments, I cared when people were snotty.

And now I just… don’t. I really and truly don’t. And I honestly don’t think anything has made me feel so free.

Want to judge me for taking psychotropic drugs? Don’t care.

Want to judge me for eating a PopTart on occasion? Don’t care.

Want to judge me for my political views, or how I feel about religion, or the things I share on Facebook? Don’t care.

And the great irony is that it always seemed So. Hard. Someone’s being mean; how could I possibly not care?! But once I got it, once it really clicked, it became the easiest thing I’d ever done. People are the weather. I can’t control them. They’re free to think, say, and do as they’d like. They’re in charge of their own little bubble and I’m in charge of mine. They can’t affect me, can’t even touch me, unless I let them.

Their journey is not my journey.

TWO BIG CAVEATS:

First, not all things are equal. We should care about words and behaviors that are racist, sexist, homophobic, or otherwise discriminatory. This sort of thing should be called out and acitively worked against, not swept under a rug of, “I don’t care.”

Second, I’m still human. I can’t rightfully sit here and say, “Nothing can ever hurt my feelings again! I’m immune!” People are gloriously flawed, and I am sensitive. Someone will eventually – deliberately or inadvertently – say something that hits. The difference between now and two years ago is that I realize I’m not powerless to what that hurt does after it lands. I can take it in and snuggle up with it and make it my friend, letting it derail me for days or weeks or months; or I can address it, whether that means a reconciliatory conversation, or simply accepting it so I can then let it go.

Getting older is a mixed bag. My body hurts more than it used to, sleep is but a vague memory, and everything that’s supposed to be up is down. I’ll be 50 in two and a half years, and I’m still digesting the phrase, “middle aged.” But. Getting to a place where I can honestly say I no longer care what other people think, a place where I no longer live for anyone’s expectations but my own, a place where the only person who holds the remote for how I feel about myself is me?

Priceless.